The American Dream
by lightinthehall
Summary: Alfred's full, clear voice snaps at the recruits like a loud whip. He should be watching everyone but his eyes are drawn to that one man and how he immediately brings his hand to a salute - not weakly, not overdone - just beautiful. He'll have to keep an eye on this one. Prompt: Matthew in American army uniform, AmeCan


Thank you to my wonderfully supportive betas Eva and Danielle! Also thank you to Em who provided valuable feedback on certain sections. This was written for a friend.

* * *

Alfred stands facing the group, face set, eyes hard and exuding authority. His stance is tough and unyielding, telling the group standing before him that the next ten weeks are not going to be easy for them. They stand before him in a neat line. Some are suppressing shivers induced by the early morning air and every single one is looking straight ahead, back straight - standing at attention. _For him. _He passes his eyes over each of them one by one, watching. Inspecting. As he does so, he can see the recruits make subtle adjustments in their statures - backs straightening slightly, feet moving further or closer apart, chins lifting higher. He knows they fear rebuke and it amuses him. Tension rolls off of them like perspiration. All this from Alfred's mere stare.

_Oh he'd be lying if he said he didn't love this._

One week. Every year Alfred disappears - escapes - to one of his Basic Combat Training camps to temporarily take the place of a Drill Sergeant for one week. The short time period is inconspicuous enough so that the other nations do not take active notice of his absence and the army officials do not question his paperwork nor do they question why he would choose to train recruits at such a low level when it's clear that he's from the top ranks.

He can tell that the other officers are itching to get to higher positions so they can start training _real_ soldiers - the new recruits are usually pitiful to watch with their horrendous postures, clumsy acts and most seem to possess little-to-none amounts of discipline or even common sense.

But this was Alfred's haven - his absolute favourite phase of training. This first week of training is when they start to dig the core beliefs and ideas into the recruits. And who better to instill these beliefs into them than their own nation? It's an environment in which Alfred has complete control over those who are willing to defend him; it is humbling and an honour - being what he is, this is his ideal place.

He surveys the next one (second last from the right) and his eyes narrow. Unlike his fellows, this one does not make any adjustments - he didn't need to - his entire posture is perfect. Back straight, chin level, shoulders pulled back and for some reason Alfred didn't doubt that if he attempted to measure the angle of his feet, they'd be exactly 45 degrees from the center.

_Strange._

Alfred intensifies his stare (the youth doesn't even flinch and he is a bit vexed by that - his stares are perfectly intimidating thank you very much) and gives the young man another once over. The sun hasn't even begun to rise, so it is too dark to see his expression clearly. A simple, military cap obscures the man's eyes. However, upon second inspection he notes that the man already filled out his uniform quite well. More so than his companions anyway. Decent musculature evident underneath the fabric. Perhaps he was one of those simple farm boys that knew nothing but heavy labour. Yet there is something smart about the way he holds himself that makes Alfred suspect otherwise. He tests the water.

"Present, arms!" His full, clear voice snaps at the recruits like a loud whip. He should be watching everyone but his eyes are drawn to that _one_ man and how he immediately brings his hand to a salute - not weakly, not overdone - just _beautiful_.

He'll have to keep an eye on this one.

* * *

The soldier doesn't disappoint.

He excelled during all the morning exercises: he led the group during the run (nearly lapped them too), and even managed to complete the exercise sequence without screwing up. There was something practiced - _experienced_ about the way he moved. Alfred monitors him more than he should. He feels that familiar frisson of excitement at the discovery a good soldier.

The sun beats down on them as Alfred oversees drills with two other sergeants, content to watch while they walk between the rows of recruits barking at anyone who collapsed or complained. Today a member of the group had left his quarters in "unsatisfactory" condition and so the entire company was ordered to do another round of 100 push ups as punishment. Responsibility. Team accountability. That's what they were drilling into them.

At the end of the count, Alfred calls a halt to the exercise and smirks slightly when a few of the soldiers collapse into the grassy field. He scoffs at them_._ The other sergeants dismiss the company for lunch as they stagger to a stand and he catches sight of the recruit from before, getting _gracefully_ to his feet glancing 'round at his exhausted fellows with a small smile, still fresh and upbeat. Lean muscles flex and stretch as he swings and shakes his arms loose. He brushes off the recent bout of exercise as if it were nothing.

The young man helps someone up, pulling by their hand and his mischievous eyes meet Alfred's as he does so. He returns the look with a smirk of his own, and giving his friend a slap on the back, turns his back on Alfred and begins the walk to the mess hall.

And the casual slight _burns_ in Alfred's chest, makes him want to drag the insolent brat back by the scruff of his collar and show him exactly what it happens when you disrespect a superior in _his_ camp.

But he knows those eyes. That enchanting shade of violet. Stunning - even at a distance.

He tenses, resisting the urge to scowl.

_What exactly is Matthew doing in an American army camp?_

* * *

Loud, raucous laughter draws Alfred's attention away from his fellow Sergeants and there is Matthew amidst the American soldiers grinning broadly as a heavily freckled recruit slaps him on the back, before making another comment that sets the group off again. Those violet eyes spare him a glance before looking away, jumping back into the lively conversation as if it held his full attention.

Matthew has always been good at finding his niche, a place where he can blend easily and fit right in. It was as good as being invisible - not a single one of these men could point at that group and tell you which one of them did not belong.

Alfred isn't entirely sure why the skin beneath his collar heats up - seeing Matthew get along so well with his citizens, acting like he _belonged_ with them. Though he does realize one thing through the way Matthew throws his head back to laugh, smiles wide and speaks _just _loud enough so Alfred can hear his voice above the others.

Matthew's putting on a show.

* * *

Afternoon exercises comprise of several runs through a typical obstacle course. The usual stretch of tires, low-hung barbed wire, wooden vaults, nets and rappelling walls are set up in the field.

_Simple enough, _Alfred thinks yet only a moment later a lanky recruit's foot catches on the edge of the vault causing him to face plant into the ground. The young man is up on his feet, red-faced and spitting out dirt before any of the Sergeants can round on him.

Matthew quickly vaults over next, running over to the rappelling wall and the muscles in his arms visibly strain as he climbs the rope. By now the entire front of his uniform is tinged reddish-brown from the dirt. He hasn't looked in Alfred's direction once since the break, but once in a while he smiles as he runs, as he clears a wall. It makes Alfred's arm tense, and he watches Matthew rappel expertly down the other side of the wall; he's beautiful, covered in dirt and sweat and Alfred just wants to manoeuvre the ropes so that they catch his arms and so he can force that face towards his.

In a place where Alfred's every word and movement is a command, Matthew is flaunting his subtle, maddening obstinacy. And Alfred is torn between self-control and dragging Matthew away to his office then and there. Matthew looks good - too good - in an American army uniform. Even if it is just the training fatigues.

Alfred's eyes roam over Matthew's strong legs and up across his back to the taut shoulders as Matthew clears another vault and starts climbing up to the hanging bars. He thinks that the green-grey of the uniform goes well with his pale skin, flushed from exercise - but there's something _more _than that, another more tantalizing factor that thrills Alfred to the core.

He isn't worried about Matthew gleaning any military secrets from him - there isn't much to learn in the way of national plans or details from such a basic level of the military. He figures that this is some sort of game that Matthew has decided to play, in an effort to frustrate him beyond belief - but he hasn't quite figured out his angle yet.

_Just what are you playing, Matt?_

A few team members don't make it around the entire course in time and the whole group is commanded to go into drill formation. It is evident that most of them are exhausted and can barely manage stand at attention as the Sergeants make their way along the rows, yelling and correcting those who let their posture slip. Once in a while the officer would stop in front of a soldier and scream at them in their worn out state, punishing those who can't pant out responses in time or those who gave the wrong answers.

Alfred oversees the process with his hands behind his back, listening to them - scowling at some of the ridiculous answers. He stares some of them down, enjoying how they willed themselves to stand still even as their limbs ached. _A soldier should still be able to think on his feet, even when exhausted._

"There are _no_ excuses - you decided to take your time on the obstacle course, why, your brains must be well rested since you _clearly_ weren't using them during training. You - !" a different officer points at Matthew, who subtly tenses as the man yells directly at his face.

"Which hand goes over your heart during the pledge of allegiance?"

A heartbeat of silence then -

"Neither hand sir! A member of the Armed forces in uniform is required to face the flag and execute a salute as they recite the words sir!"

Annoyed that he hadn't managed to slip him up, the Sergeant leans closer to Matthew's face, nose inches away from Matthew's cheek. His lips thin.

"Then why don't you do just that soldier?"

At that, Matthew turns abruptly to the right, keeping his perfect posture as he brings his right hand up in a salute. He's looking straight at Alfred, who freezes. _What - ? _Over the sound of blood rushing through his ears, he hears a familiar _flap _high above his head and realizes that he's standing beneath his country's flag.

"I pledge allegiance," Matthew begins, keeping steady eye contact with a breathless Alfred. "To the flag of the United States of America, and to the republic for which it stands, one nation under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all."

Alfred is completely floored - his throat is dry, his fists are clenched and undeniable heat spreads throughout his body. The words - words he's heard over a million times - set fire to his veins and he doesn't miss the sly look that Matthew sends him before he turns back into formation. His expression darkens, and he has to rein in the powerful possessiveness and need that courses through his body.

He wonders if Matthew has ever looked more _his_ but he doesn't think that could be possible.

When the company is finally dismissed, Matthew hangs back, stretching out his legs and arms, brushing the soil off his shirt.

Matthew gives him an easy grin as he falls into step with him while everyone heads towards the barracks. Alfred is walking a bit stiffly, struggling to keep his face neutral as he scans the field for any stragglers that might notice them.

"How do I look sir?" Matthew asks conversationally, as they take a left towards Alfred's quarters. His hair is damp from perspiration, and his shirt is clinging to his toned chest.

He makes a point to smooth out the embroidered American flag on the top left of his uniform and Alfred is suddenly struck by the words _right_ and _want_ and _perfect_.

"Filthy," is the only response he allows himself to give; it comes out hoarse and strained. He finally understands what Matthew's doing and he realizes that he is _losing_ _and he doesn't care_.

He opens the door to his room, and drags Matthew inside before slamming it shut. All pretense is dropped between them as he shoves the other man against the wall and kisses him hard. He can practically taste the mirth emanating from Matthew and he growls as he bites Matthew's bottom lip.

"What are you doing here Matthew?" he asks, biting along the Canadian's jaw and neck line as he continues to pin him to the wall.

"Well," Matthew laughs breathlessly, gripping Alfred's short blond hair. "You love a good soldier."

Alfred hums in agreement, mouth still preoccupied with Matthew's neck. The heated skin was already starting to darken and bruise - and Alfred discovers that he was wrong when he thought that Matthew couldn't be more his.

"So I decided to be a good - ah - _American_ soldier."

Matthew's shirt is yanked upwards and he starts pulling at Alfred's clothes too: throwing off his shirt, trying to undo the buckle that Alfred's already managed to take care of on his pants. Rough hands slide over his bare stomach and back, glancing over a nipple sending a shiver throughout his body.

Alfred drags Matthew's pants around his knees, mouthing hotly at the hard bulge underneath his boxers, before dragging those down too. He pumps Matthew several times as he licks and nips his way back up Matthew's torso. Matthew groans and leans into him, arching his back off the wall.

Alfred messily kisses his open mouth, twisting his tongue with the other's as he edges Matthew's shirt higher until the hem bunched just beneath the small American flag sewn onto the fabric. Matthew lifts his arms, anticipating that Alfred wanted to take his shirt off, but Alfred uses his hand to trap his wrists instead, letting his other hand dig and impress upon the skin, willing each touch to mark, to own.

"You said my words -" he says, tracing Matthew's lips with his tongue, only to slip it back in to tangle with Matthew's - _this mouth did, this tongue formed the words._ Alfred feels light-headed as he tries to siphon that moment out of him, tries to taste the pledge that had fallen from Matthew's lips. He's almost too far gone to realize their hips are already rolling against each other. Pressing Matthew more insistently against the wall, he works his own boxers down to where his pants are pooled around his ankles, caught above his boots.

His dick is flush against Matthew's and for a moment the two of them are perfectly aligned - long, muscular bodies trembling against each other as they breathe one another in. He brushes a knuckle along the seam of Matthew's lips and his breath hitches when Matthew takes his finger into his mouth, feeling the texture of his tongue smooth and twirl around it, sucking lightly on it before coating it again with his saliva. He does the same with his second and third fingers, before removing them from his mouth and bringing them down to trace his entrance.

Matthew flushes despite himself, and Alfred feels Matthew's arms jerk and flex beneath his other hand when he breaches the initial ring of muscle with his finger, easing his way further in. The saliva helps and he does his best to prepare Matthew, eventually stretching him enough to slip the next two fingers in as well. He finds the place that makes Matthew slam their hips together and continuously rubs at it, enjoying the way Matthew seemed to lose strength in his legs.

All throughout the preparation, Matthew makes keens encouragingly, pushing against the hands that have him captive above and below. He is unable to touch Alfred or himself so he settles for rubbing against him while impatiently extending and closing his ensnared fingers above his head.

Alfred finally releases Matthew's arms which immediately wind themselves around his neck, and they kiss again and again as they slide down to the floor together. He removes his fingers from Matthew's ass, wiping them off on his discarded undershirt before carding them through Matthew's wavy hair.

Matthew, still encumbered by the pants around his knees, tries to tug them off along with his boots when Alfred stops him.

"No - no I want you to wear them," he breathes. Trying and failing to hide his amusement, Matthew brings himself to face Alfred's hardened cock, licking it along its length before sucking at the tip. He pushes down on Alfred's hips to keep them in place as he takes him into his mouth, twirling his tongue around, covering him again with his saliva. He hums what Alfred _swears_ is his own anthem, and he almost comes right then.

Deciding he was satisfactorily slicked up, Matthew lets Alfred manoeuvre him onto his back, spreading his legs as wide as he can as they were still stuck in the uniform. Alfred slips under the tangle of Matthew's pants and positions himself between Matthew's legs.

"Say it again," he commands though with a tremor in his voice making it sound more like pleading.

"Sir?" Matthew playfully prompts, bucking upwards. He is thoroughly flushed as well, panting for breath.

"Again, say it again - for me, to me," Alfred is delirious and lost reliving an old dream that hasn't been forgotten. He slowly thrusts inside of Matthew when he starts to speak.

"I pledge allegiance," he repeats huskily, drawing a sharp breath when Alfred suddenly thrusts inside of him all at once. Matthew tugs painfully at his hair - warning, and Alfred slows his pace, trembling with the effort as Matthew continues. He takes Matthew in hand again, working him back to arousal.

"...the United States of America," he pauses to nip at Alfred's pulse point, _that's you, youyouyou_ and "- the republic for which it stands..." earns him another hard thrust that makes them both see stars.

Alfred speeds up again, losing his grip on self control - Matthew is underneath him, partially clothed in an _American army uniform_, pledging and wanting and all he feels is the bliss and rush of claiming. A darker part of his mind screams _mineminemine_ and he stamps it down if only to hear the next parts.

"..._indivisible_..." Matthew breathes out, and it certainly seemed as if they were with Alfred thrusting hard and deep within him and he claws at Alfred's back, finally gasping out the last few words as Alfred fully takes over, still on a high from Matthew's recitation.

The words echo in Alfred's head as he takes Matthew; they mix beautifully with the other man's moans until they reach an incredible crescendo in his mind and his vision explodes bright white before his eyes as he keeps thrusting, feeling Matthew finish shortly afterwards.

After he stops moving, it takes him a second to realize that his eyes are shut tight and he is wrapped close around Matthew, who is trying to catch his breath.

"I guess I really should be worried about this manifest destiny stuff, huh?" Matthew chuckles when Alfred finally opens his eyes. His hair is dishevelled, and his violet eyes are shining and trusting. _Still Canada. Still Matthew._

He hasn't pulled out yet. Alfred only buries his face into Matthew's marked neck and tightens his grip, willing his rapid heartbeat to calm.

Alfred recognizes the disappointment and the ache in his soul and he wonders when this stopped being just a game for him.

* * *

Thank you for reading!

I didn't end up changing the title after all! It's more a reference to Alfred's own, hidden personal dreams as a nation than anything else.

[ Rules I intentionally ignored (other than the obvious):  
Head shaving  
Took liberties with the training uniform, from what I researched the training uniforms are often plain. ]


End file.
